


Dark And Heart Obsessed

by softlyforgotten



Category: Bandom, Panic At The Disco, The Young Veins
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-22
Updated: 2011-02-22
Packaged: 2017-10-22 22:40:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/243368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softlyforgotten/pseuds/softlyforgotten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Prince has returned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dark And Heart Obsessed

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: dub-con, past rape and trauma, sex slaves.

> When did you go? oh, oh, oh, oh, oh.  
> I'm all alone. no, no, no, no, no.  
> I see my bones. oh, oh, oh, oh, oh.  
> Well, I'll come into your home.

It had been a long day already. Ryan had spent the morning trying to explain patiently to some of the ministerial advisors, over and over and over again, why making the palace staff slaves into indentured servants really wasn't the way to go if they wanted to preserve any revolutionary ideals whatsoever, and had just begun to think he was making process when one of the more friendly advisors said, "But it's not so bad, right? I mean, they get fed."

Ryan had left the room for a little while – not to have a mini-breakdown based on past trauma, as he was sure Pete was explaining to the others as the winning hand in the argument, but to thump his head repetitively against the wall. Then lunch had come, only with the palace kitchens still mostly ruined after all this time and them working with a skeleton staff, "lunch" really meant "crackers and cheese that Spencer had sliced up badly", and really, Ryan thought, things were not nearly as glamorous as he had imagined, or hoped for. He found himself thinking back on the old meals when the King and Queen were still in power with longing, before he forcibly cut himself off. Ryan had made a rule, some time after five of the seven royal children were executed, that he was not allowed to think about the old regime at all. Even when Pete used Ryan's story for propaganda and moving speeches and as a winning argument with which to enforce a new particular piece of legislature or something, Ryan had gotten good at thinking about it as some strange story, something that had happened to someone else, preferably someone fictional.

It worked well as a story. Ryan didn't begrudge Pete for using it – it had played an important part in spurring the revolution, and Ryan knew that he might not have survived that much longer in the old regime. It was just that if he thought about it too closely, he had trouble not throwing up, and he kept checking to make sure the gold bands around his wrist were gone. Also, he visited empty rooms too frequently.

After lunch, Ryan had an hour before he had to go back to work on reforming the new judicial system. It wasn't hard work, now – it had been eleven months since they took over the palace, and they had turned their attention to the courts as one of their first focuses – but it was finicky and detailed, and it gave Ryan a headache.

He slipped away to find Spencer, eating an apple out on the front lawn, reading through a book of the month's last trials. "Anything good?" Ryan asked, and Spencer looked up, smiling and patting the grass beside him. Ryan lay down beside him.

"Not much," Spencer told him. "We're getting there, you know. The last dregs of some of the richer landowners, but we're done with all the judges, and the slavetraders." He didn't hesitate or give Ryan any weird looks when he said it, and Ryan bumped their shoulders together lightly in thanks. Spencer always knew what to do; had always known what to do.

"That's great, Spence," Ryan said, low and warm. He meant it, too – he and Pete were plowing through all the theory together, setting it in place, and his position meant that he'd had to trial the worst offenders, the royalty and their close advisors, but he escaped the rest of it. Spencer had to act it out every day, with every offence, and that meant condemning some of the old regime's most public figures. Spencer wasn't even twenty-one yet, and he'd attracted a lot of backlash, but he stood calm through it all. Still, Ryan knew that he was incredibly grateful they were onto the smaller perpetrators of the monarchy's crimes.

"Are you avoiding Pete and the legislature?" Spencer asked him, smiling crookedly. Ryan groaned.

"Technically I don't have to be there for another ten minutes," he said.

"And it only takes fifteen to walk from here to that side of the castle," Spencer said, voice thick with laughter. "And forty if you feel like stopping to chat with Elizabeth Berg about theories for the Liberation of the Proletariat, and also that amazing vest you saw in the Lower Town last week—"

"Oh, shut up," Ryan grumbled. "They're _boring_ with the legislature. _It's_ boring."

"Yeah, you've done all the crime and punishment things," Spencer said. "Now you have to focus on insignificant little things, like, y'know, taxes. Your life is so hard."

"I hate you," Ryan said.

"Sure," Spencer said comfortably.

"I'll go in a little while," Ryan said, and Spencer nodded, smiling at him. Ryan slumped lower in the grass, resting his face on his arms, lazily watching Spencer read and thinking about nothing in particular. The time passed quickly, and Pete was going to be so, so mad at him, but Ryan was comfortable and peaceful and the afternoon was so warm and still. He could hear the shouts of the stonemasons remodelling a little way away, and some women laughing somewhere, and everything felt alright.

After forty-five minutes or so, a dark shadow fell over them. " _There_ you are," Pete said. "I've been looking for you two everywhere."

"I was coming," Ryan said, sitting up slowly. "Eventually, I mean. Sorry."

"What are you – oh," Pete said. "No, the meeting's been cancelled. It's not about that."

"What is it?" Spencer asked, and then Ryan looked at Pete properly and froze. Pete's face was white and strained, his eyes dark and burning, hands fluttering awkwardly by his sides.

"What is it?" Ryan repeated, scrambling to his feet, Spencer moving with him. "Pete, what's going on?"

"It's the Youngest Prince," Pete said. "We caught him."

Ryan swayed backwards, couldn't help it, but Spencer was right there, holding him up. "Where?" Spencer asked, while Ryan concentrated very carefully on breathing.

"Only a few miles outside of the city," Pete said. "It was just a regular patrol, but they found him sleeping on the side of the road – he wouldn't say much of anything when they caught him, just that he was the prince and demanded a fair trial, as was his right."

Ryan made a small sound. Spencer said, voice low and dark, "Yes, I'm sure the prince has a lot of God-given rights he'd like to tell us about."

"He was arrested and brought here immediately," Pete continued, cautious eyes fixed on Ryan. "It's – he needs trial, right away. It's going to take forever, and we don't want him in the dungeons awaiting trial, because that's when most of them get broken out, or seized upon as victims of injustice – he's the ultimate symbol, Ryan, and—"

"I know that," Ryan said. His voice sounded strange to his own ears. "I know he is. You don't need to tell me that."

"I know," Pete said. "But the other thing is – the trial has to be conducted by you. You're the only one who has the – the status—"

" _You_ do," Spencer interrupted, tugging Ryan protectively close.

"I have the status but not the history," Pete said wretchedly. "I was outside of the palace, the only way he's not going to be seized upon by the loyalists as a martyr is if someone who knows _exactly_ what he's done takes control of the trial. If someone who's – suffered at his hands gets to pass down the ultimate punishment."

"I know that, too," Ryan said. He closed his eyes for a moment and asked, "Where is he now?"

"In the Royal Court," Pete said, reaching out to touch Ryan's shoulder. Ryan shied back against Spencer and Pete dropped his hand, looking miserable. "Ryan, you know I wouldn't do this unless I had to—"

"I know," Ryan said.

"Ryan," Spencer said lowly, and then turned back to Pete, voice hard and angry. "You can't do it this suddenly. You've got to – put him in the dungeons for the night, no one needs to know he's here—"

"People have _seen_ him, Spence," Pete said, voice rising. "And the guards who arrested him, you think they're not going to tell everyone they know? It's not like he's not very recognisable—"

"It doesn't matter!" Spencer yelled. "You can't spring something like this on anyone so suddenly, let alone – he _ruined our lives_ , and then he fucking ran away like a rat, and you want to just go out and declare a quick, cool verdict? Jesus, Pete!"

"The whole point is that it won't be a quick, cool verdict," Pete said tightly. "It's going to drag on forever, we're going to have to unearth every bit of evidence we've got to keep him from becoming some sort of Sun King all over again – he was _always_ a favourite with the people, even when his parents were ruining everyone's lives, and that's not going to change. We need to get started right _now_."

"It's not that easy," Spencer said. "This is people, this is – Ryan, what are you doing?"

Ryan looked back over his shoulder. "Going to see Brendon," he said, and kept walking.

\---

The court was already full when Ryan got there, and he stopped in the side doorway for a moment, staring, heart pounding. Pete hadn't been kidding, Jesus – there was no way to hide that the prince had returned, especially with aforementioned prince sitting at the prisoner's dock, hands chained behind his back and still managing to look appealing and friendly. Ryan stared at him, throat working; Brendon didn't look the same, not really – he was clearly older ( _twenty-one_ , Ryan thought automatically), with his hair grown longer and in need for a shave, like he never had been a year ago. His smile was the same, though, when he turned to look at someone in the crowd.

His eyes were dark and serious, Ryan noticed suddenly, like they had never been; Brendon had always seemed on the point of laughing, except for when he was turning huge, mournful puppy eyes on you. It was the look in his eyes, really, that made Ryan think he'd grown up in the year since Ryan had last seen him.

Brendon turned his head, suddenly, and he was looking straight at Ryan. Ryan took a step back compulsively, and then cursed himself for it: it was stupid and weak and way too noticeable, and Brendon sat very still and just looked at him, until Ryan could feel his cheeks burning.

He turned and walked away, deliberately, going into another room and picking up a pile of useless scrolls, so it looked, at least, like he'd just gone to pick up something he'd forgotten. When he returned, Brendon was still watching the empty doorway, and he raised his chin when he saw Ryan. Ryan moved in without missing a step, glancing at Brendon with calculated disinterest.

The murmur of voices quelled when Ryan came in, and he swept up to the judge's chair, settling himself in it and picking up a heavy roll of parchment, skimming over the lines.

"Brendon Urie," he said, and there was a ripple through the room. Ryan resisted the urge to roll his eyes – they _knew_ who he was, Ryan confirming it didn't really need to have that reaction. He looked at Brendon, and was stupidly proud of the way his hands didn't tremble, his voice was steady, despite the fluttering in his chest, the sick feeling in his stomach. "You've been charged with assisting a dictatorship, manslaughter, rape, crimes against the country and humanity, and war crimes. How do you plead?"

"If you'll excuse me," Brendon said, and Ryan let one hand drop to his lap, clenched his fingers into a fist, digging his nails into his skin. Brendon smiled, apologetically. "I haven't been given a lawyer."

The court erupted; Ryan guessed that most of them were protesting that any member of the Royal Family should get a trial at all, let alone a lawyer, but there were a couple there who would be on Brendon's side, and a huge amount of people would seize onto the idea, Ryan knew. There were several acclaimed writers of political pamphlets, he saw, and the editors of two of the capital's newspapers, and Ryan wasn't stupid enough to think that everyone was on their side, no matter how much better things already were since the Royal Family had been ousted.

He looked sharply at where Pete had appeared, a little out of breath. "Is this true?" he asked, and Pete nodded.

"It's been considered important to get the trial underway as quickly as possible," Pete said, and Ryan resisted the urge to yell at everybody involved.

"The accused cannot face court without adequate representation," Ryan said, slamming the file of papers closed. "Court will adjourn until such representation has been found, and the accused has met with them."

Pete's mouth twisted unhappily, but he bowed mockingly. "Your Honour," he said, and Ryan rolled his eyes and made a face at him. A couple of people in the crowd laughed, and Ryan grinned sheepishly at them.

"Now that our High Councillor has been reminded of the justice system," he said, and the crowd laughed again, louder, and stood up to begin to shuffle out.

When nearly everyone was gone, Ryan turned to the last ministerial advisers and said, "Andy, will you see about getting him a lawyer?"

"Will do," Andy said, raising a lazy hand in recognition and walking out of the room. Ryan rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, coming around and resolutely not looking at where Brendon was still chained up.

"Okay, take him away," Ryan said, waving a hand at the group of guards standing at attention. He turned to Pete and said, in a low voice, "Really, you don't think you could have mentioned that you were avoiding the whole _legality_ of the—"

"Excuse me," Brendon said, and Ryan froze and turned around, slowly. Brendon had been pulled to his feet, was standing with a strange, graceful politeness between two guards who looked a little uncertain about what to do with their prisoner. Brendon cocked his head to the side and half-smiled, said, "It's – Your Honour, now?"

"It's Minister Ross," Pete said coldly.

"I didn't think Ministers conducted trials," Brendon said.

"Things have changed," Pete said, and Brendon nodded, courteous expression never changing.

"Yes," he said. "I heard, actually, that a political prisoner can solicit a private audience with a Minister or judge, and I—"

"You're not a political prisoner," Pete snarled. "You're a criminal."

Brendon's expression faltered for the tiniest of seconds; then he drew a breath and continued, pleasantly, "Possibly I am, but I'm being charged as a political prisoner, so I think I have the rights of one."

Pete stared at him, hard and cold. Ryan didn't move. After a moment, Pete said, "Very well, then. As the prisoner does not have the right to decide which Minister or official he or she will speak to, I will send down someone appropriate. I think perhaps Minister Smith might enjoy the opportunity—"

"I'll come see you in half an hour," Ryan said quietly. "I have some paperwork to do. Alright?"

"Thank you," Brendon said, and the guards took him away. Pete stared speechlessly at Ryan, and Ryan turned on his heel.

"Don't be a fool, Pete," he said, and went to go hide in his room and shake.

\---

The room was bare stone, with a tiny window up high and no furniture, guards posted at the door to watch Brendon until Ryan got there. When he arrived, they stepped respectfully aside, letting him through.

Brendon was standing on the other side of the room, having jumped up so that he could curl his hands around the iron bars and stare out the tiny window. He was holding himself up with his arms, and the muscles stood out, holding tight. Ryan stood silently for a moment, and then closed the door behind him.

Brendon dropped lightly to the ground and turned around. He still had that expression of faint politeness on his face, and Ryan kind of wanted to punch it off. "Hello," Brendon said. "Thank you for coming. I appreciate your time."

"What do you want," Ryan said flatly, and Brendon smiled quickly, small and scared. Ryan felt a little gratified.

"I just wanted to," Brendon said, and stopped, swallowed. "See you."

"Here I am," Ryan said. He folded his arms and leaned back against the door.

"You look good," Brendon said, and Ryan hissed, the words hitting like a blow to his stomach. Now he _really_ wanted to punch Brendon.

"I can have you killed," he said instead. "I don't have to wait for the trial. Any number of people here have it out for you – anyone could send an assassin. I'd attract as much suspect as about a hundred other people, and no one would care that much, anyway." A lie, but if Brendon didn't know about the loyalists – which Ryan doubted – Ryan had no intention of telling him.

Brendon didn't say anything about loyalists at all, though. His face crumpled, mouth falling open a little. "Ryan," he said.

"Don't," Ryan said. "You can't – you have to address me by my title."

Brendon made a small sound, mouth twisting into an unhappy smile. "I never made you use mine," he said, and Ryan gasped, mouth shaping soundless words for a moment before he regained the ability to speak.

"Oh, _thank you_ ," he spat. "Thank you so fucking much, Brendon, it was so good of you not to make me call you Highness when you were forcing me to suck your cock—"

Brendon flinched. "Don't," he interrupted. "I – Ryan—"

"Where the fuck do you get off?" Ryan asked harshly. "You think you can just – what did you want, me to get you free, maybe a couple of years labour a long way away from here, so you can scurry off and join your sister in Deladonia once that's done, or maybe nothing at all, pardoned because of you being on friendly terms with a Minister, hey, _maybe_ , maybe you could govern with us! Maybe you could, I don't know, get the position of Vice Chancellor, and then wait until Pete's done – or just poison him, your dad was fond of that, right? – and take over, and everything can just bow to you again, everything can work out for you the way it always has, the way it always will. You might have to be a little more subtle after the whole revolution thing, but you're clever, Brendon, you'll work it out – courtesans aren't sex slaves, right? You can totally get away with having _courtesans_ , they're just, what, people lounging in luxury or something, you can totally have them, everyone will back you on that, and—"

" _Ryan_ ," Brendon said. He was pressed up against the stone wall, face white. "I. Please."

"What do you want with me?" Ryan said, voice shaking. "How can you possibly still have the goddamn arrogance to ask of me things?"

"You can't make me into the bad guy," Brendon said, voice small. "You can't rewrite history, I'm not the bad guy—"

"I'm not rewriting history," Ryan snapped. "You stole me when I was sixteen to make me a sex slave, you hung Spencer over my head so that if I made a step wrong, if I didn't obey every single thing you said, he'd be killed, you—"

"I didn't do that," Brendon interrupted. "Not personally, I didn't."

"You asked for me," Ryan said, voice hard. "I was kind to you when you went through your stupid _Prince and the Pauper_ phase, and I got you out of trouble, even though I didn't know who you _were_ , and then you asked for me. I don't care whether or not you knew how they enforced things. You did everything."

"Ryan," Brendon whispered, and Ryan turned away, shaking his head.

"I'm not even the worst story," he said. "Thousands of people had it worse than me. Every cruelty you guys perpetrated—"

"Can you just be a little less – black and white?" Brendon said. "Try and see things from my perspective."

"Fuck you," Ryan said. "Like I could ever – you expect me to show any sympathy for you? After what you did to _me_?"

Brendon glared at him, straightening his shoulders. "Jesus, Ryan, what I did to you? I gave you a room in the palace! You wore silk robes and ate every day, and had access to the Royal Library, and some of the greatest minds in the country! No more scrounging in rubbish heaps and stealing and avoiding guards, and you told me, you told me—"

"I would rather have _lived_ in a rubbish heap than had my freedom taken away from me," Ryan spat. "Do you even know how the slaves were trained? Before we were handed over to you? Do you have _any_ idea what we went through, what – the drugs we had to take, the starvation treatments, the." He stopped, mouth tasting bitter.

"I – we did things wrong," Brendon said. "I _know_ , my parents, they. I didn't know then, though, and I did my best, I always did, I – you can't say we meant nothing to each other."

Ryan stared at him, anger hot in his gut. "What," he said, voice low and dangerous, "you thought I wanted you? You actually, honestly thought any of that was _real_? We got trained, Brendon, and I was one of the best."

Brendon made a small, shocked sound, and Ryan set his shoulders, tilted his chin up defiantly.

"Can I go now?" he asked coldly. "We've got a country to fix."

Brendon shoved himself upright, drawing himself up tall. "Oh yeah," he said. "I forgot, your fucking morally superior war, your fight for freedom – hey, thank God you executed my sister, huh? She was vicious for a seven year old."

"I hope they sentence you to death," Ryan said, turning around and banging on the door for the guards to let him out.

"You're the only one who can do that," Brendon said, and Ryan fled.

\---

Spencer was waiting for him in his bedroom, but Ryan asked him to leave. "It's not," he said, and closed his eyes. "I need to be. On my own," and Spencer nodded and left, because he was pretty good at doing what Ryan asked when he thought Ryan needed it.

If he crawled under the covers and pulled them up over his head, closed his eyes, he could pretend that it was two years ago, that he was lying in his room at night and waiting for Brendon to send for him. He lay very still, not thinking about very much at all, remembering the nights when he would be hungry for it, skin itching at the thought of Brendon's hand, Brendon's mouth, Brendon's cock, wanting him so much and hating himself for that, trying to hate Brendon, too, even though he had never been very good at that.

He thought about the way he used to drug himself if he felt it too keenly, making it so that wanting Brendon wasn't a choice, and was therefore acceptable. Those nights hadn't been so frequent, though, and more often Ryan had come to Brendon only as himself, not bothering with body paint or make-up or glitter, curling up at Brendon's side and telling each other in whispers about their days, about the things they had read or seen or thought about. Sometimes, they wouldn't fuck; Ryan would fall asleep with Brendon curled around him, Brendon's face pressed into his hair.

When the slaves had been freed, after the initial fighting was gone and some form of peace had arisen, mostly after the last few barracks still loyal to the crown had been driven into exile or killed, Ryan had spoken to some of the other bedslaves, had listened as one after another they explained the things all of them knew, as they started every story with "you all know what it is like", and Ryan had felt terrified and wrong because he kept thinking _I don't_.

After a little while, there was a knock on the door and Ryan opened it to Pete.

"I wanted to make sure you were okay," he said, and Ryan drew in a breath.

"I can't kill him," he said. "I'm sorry, I know it's what you want, but I can't execute him, and I can't have a public trial, either."

"Ryan," Pete said, eyes dark and worried. "This is exactly the kind of thing that counter-revolutions are made of—"

"Then we have to risk it," Ryan said. He sat down on the bed and said, "I can't do it, Pete."

"We can put someone else up to trial him, if you really don't—"

"That's still me doing it," Ryan said. He turned away, walked to his window and leaned on it, bracing himself with both hands on the sill. "Did you know, on the night you guys stormed the palace, he came to get me out?"

"What?"

"He came to my rooms," Ryan said. "And he said, 'get Spencer, we've got to get out of here,' and when I asked what was going on, he told me that his parents had been carried away, and he had no idea where his brothers were and his sisters were already fleeing, but he came to get me and Spencer, to get us out of here."

Pete made a low, angry noise. "He came to keep you for yourself—"

"He came," Ryan said, "because he thought we were going to be killed, too, because he had no idea what was happening – Brendon was so stupid, he never paid any attention to politics, I don't think he had the slightest idea that there was discontent anywhere. He just thought we were being attacked, and he didn't know why, and he was scared we were going to be killed. So he came to save us."

"Ryan," Pete said, voice low, "Ryan, he still—"

"I know what he still did," Ryan said. "I know that. I'm – he can just stay in the dungeons forever, he can stay in there and rot, but. You didn't see his face. Spencer and I, we told him, we said that the revolutionaries were here because we had let them into the palace, we had stolen his father's reports and sent them to you and orchestrated the whole damn thing – we took some extra credit, y'know, because Spencer was mad."

"And he was angry, and hurt," Pete said impatiently. "Look—"

"No," Ryan said. "He said, 'that makes sense'. And then he kissed me, and apologised that he couldn't stay, and then he left."

Ryan turned around and smiled crookedly at Pete. "So lock him up," he said. "Keep him locked up forever, keep him lonely and hungry in the dark. But I can't kill him."

"Ryan," Pete said, but Ryan turned away from him, back to the window, wondering if Brendon had found another one in his cell, had his fingers curled around iron and stone, face pressed up to the sky.

\---

In the end, Ryan took the coward's way out. He deliberated with Spencer, but Spencer was mostly too pissed at him to do anything but scowl and say things like "sure, Ryan, and then let's go and set free that rapist", so Ryan did what he wanted to do, what he felt safe doing. He sat down with some of the new regime's lawyers and had scribes write everything down, with no pretence or secrecy about it, and he released a public statement about the Prince's reprieve from the death sentence due to ignorance and youth, and did a small interview with one of the leading newspapers in which he refused to talk about much of his past, or his contact with the Prince, besides saying "we had a brief meeting, wherein nothing important was decided upon or even discussed". There was a brief investigation about the possibility of Ryan having taken a bribe, but in the end it was concluded that the Prince had no money with which to bribe anyone, having not been in contact with his sister, who was still Queen of Deladonia.

Only once all that was out of the way did Ryan send the official advisors down to the cells to tell Brendon. It was protocol for Ryan, as judge, to be letting the accused know himself, but he couldn't face another meeting with Brendon. He gave them the instructions, and went back to his room.

He stood there awkwardly for a moment, like a stranger in a room they had never seen before, and then he put on a cloak and pulled the hood up over his eyes and dashed after the advisors to skulk behind them and remain out of sight.

Brendon looked up when they came into the dungeons, stood outside his cells and told him that he was under a sentence of life imprisonment for assisting a dictatorship, manslaughter, rape, going on and on with detailed descriptions and archaic language until even Ryan's head was spinning.

Brendon sat quietly and listened to it all, the same charges his parents and siblings would have heard if they hadn't been killed on that night. When they were done he nodded, just once, smiling lopsidedly, head leaning back against the stones.

"Okay," he said. "Okay."

"Sign here," one of the advisors said frostily, passing parchment and ink through the bars, and Brendon signed easily, with a flourish. Ryan squinted from the shadows, but Brendon didn't add on any of his old titles. Ryan wondered how hard it was to rid yourself of that particular habit.

When they turned to go, though, Brendon said, "I'm sorry, can you—"

"Is there a problem?"

"No," Brendon said. "Listen, will you just – will you tell him that I'm not… I'm sorry, but I didn't know what I was doing. That I was young and stupid and that I wasn't sorry then but I am now, even though that doesn't mean anything."

An advisor drew himself up, sneering. "Speak with respect," he said. "Address the Minister by his title, not a pronoun. And we're no one's messengers."

Brendon tilted his head up, just slightly, and Ryan could see the darkness in his eyes, the hint of regality in it, the royal blood and easy, instinctive command that no one could ever, ever take away.

"Oh," he said, "I think you'll tell him." He paused and then added, a little softer, "Tell him I love him, too. And that's why I was caught. Because I came back."

\---

Ryan let himself forget, as best he could. He forgot about Brendon down in the dungeons, forgot about Brendon's quiet words in the dark, forgot about Pete's warnings ("The people need a symbol, Ryan. You can't expect them to get over the monarchy if one of the heirs is still alive!") and Spencer's anger ("I can't believe – after everything he did to you, to us – it was a gilded fucking _cage_ ,") and went about his life the way he always had. There was so much to do, still, and for the first time in months Ryan was grateful again for that, for the space it left in his head.

Three weeks after Brendon's sentencing, though, Ryan went down to the House of Flowers, the rehabilitation house for the old bedslaves. It was on the outskirts of town, dark and quiet and safe, where not many people passed by, and it was a huge property, too, with miles of land where you could travel and feel alone and protected.

Ryan had his own key, like all the old slaves, though he was the only one who didn't live there, who had left after a month. He'd left, ostentatiously, to stay with Spencer – but it had been more than that, had been a mixture of feeling like he'd belonged more at the palace with Brendon down the hall and the gold bands around his wrists, and wanting something familiar, and feeling guilty, like he was taking the sympathy for something that wasn't his. There was still a place for him, he was told as he left, and there always would be, and sometimes he was grateful for that. Right now, though, he just wanted to talk to Gerard.

"Hey," he said when Greta opened the door, and she smiled at him.

"He's upstairs," she said, and Ryan nodded and went up. He knew Gerard's room – he rapped quietly on the door and called, "It's Ryan."

"Come on in," Gerard said, muffled through the wood, and Ryan went in. Gerard was shaking Frank awake, saying, "Frankie, hey, Ryan's here," and Frank sat up with a start, teeth curling back in a snarl automatically. "It's alright," Gerard said, "it's alright, Frank, it's just Ryan."

"Hi," Ryan said awkwardly, and waved. Frank looked at him carefully and then nodded, and Ryan came in and sat down on the chair. Gerard had his hand on the back of Frank's neck, fingers stroking gently through his hair.

"Hi, Ryan," Gerard said. "How are you?"

 _Been better_ , Ryan wanted to say, but it was hard with Frank shaking so visibly at the presence of someone he didn't know and trust completely, at the hunched, careful way Gerard was holding himself. Gerard treated him with the same terrible gentleness he used on everyone, except for Frank, who had a brand of his own, and Mikey, who got to look after Gerard rather than the other way around, and Ryan still felt like a cheat, stealing his way into consideration that he didn't deserve.

"Okay," he said instead. He drew in a breath and said, "I sentenced Brendon, a little while ago."

Frank made a small, rough noise, and pressed his face against Gerard's knee. Probably he had never seen Brendon in his life – Frank had never been one of the royal bedslaves, and in any case, Ryan had been Brendon's only one – but the mention of the Royal Family was enough.

Gerard nodded, eyes warm and fixed on Ryan. "We heard," he said. "That must have been hard."

Ryan swallowed. "He told me," he said, and then paused, shook his head. "I mean, he told people who were meant to tell me, but I was there, but he didn't know – anyway. He said he came back for me. Because he, um."

"Was in love with you?" Gerard suggested, and Ryan made a small, shocked sound, like he hadn't heard it aloud before. After a moment, he nodded, and Gerard smiled again, lopsided and kind. "We all kind of knew," he said. "I mean, that was the difference between Prince Brendon and the rest, right? Not that what he was doing was right," he hastened to add, almost tripping over himself to avoid offence, "but – he cared while he was doing it."

"How did you know?" Ryan said, drawing his knees up to his chest.

"Everyone knew," Gerard said instead of an answer, and Ryan looked down and nodded again. He'd known, of course; known from the moment that the guards told him that Brendon had requested the vagabond he'd made friends with on a city excursion be his companion in bed, known from the first and the last time Brendon had looked at him.

"He came back," Ryan said, "for me."

"Yes," Gerard said.

"Risking death."

"Yes," Gerard said.

"He's an idiot."

"Quite possibly," Gerard said. He paused and said, "Ryan, you're not feeling guilty, are you?"

"No," Ryan said. He made a face and corrected himself: "Well, not about that."

"Ryan," Gerard said gently, "what's up?"

"Is it wrong," Ryan said, in a small voice. "Is it wrong, that I—"

"What he did to you was wrong," Gerard said. "You haven't done anything that could be considered—"

"I sort of," Ryan said, and fell silent, staring fixedly at Gerard.

"Oh," Gerard said. " _Oh_."

"I hate him," Ryan said, voice small, and Gerard disentangled himself from Frank and came over, gave Ryan a hug, moving carefully, announcing each of his gestures by making them bigger than they needed to be. Ryan thought of the way all the ex-bedslaves did it, of the intricate, unspoken laws they had made for themselves, and almost, for a minute, wished he was like them, wished he needed them. It was impossibly lucky, he knew, that he didn't, but all the same, for a moment he just wanted to be stupid and let himself think that, wanted to be easier to understand.

"Maybe you should talk to him," Gerard said, and Ryan stood up. He really, really didn't want to talk to Brendon.

"Thanks for talking," he said, and Gerard waved at him.

"Bye, Ryan," he said. "Come by again."

"I will," Ryan said. "Bye, Frank."

Frank made a small, distressed sound; the last thing Ryan heard as he left was Gerard going back to the bed, murmuring to Frank in a low, continuous stream.

\---

He didn't go talk to Brendon. He really, really didn't want to talk to Brendon; what he wanted, actually, was to get Brendon out of his system completely, which was a little difficult when he kept waking up with his mouth tasting of salt, halfway out of the bed to go down to the dungeons. It was worse a week later, when he woke up hard and aching, with the lingering memory of Brendon's fingers sliding into him, Brendon biting at his hipbone, smiling up at Ryan with his eyes darker than usual.

The next morning, Ryan went to find Pete. He was a little nervous, really, because he'd never actually – seduced or propositioned or even _asked_ someone before. It had always been Brendon summoning him, and Ryan knowing what was expected, and then, after a little while, knowing what Brendon liked, what made Brendon move differently or get louder or just stare up at Ryan with that look in his eyes, dark and hot and frightening. It had never been frightening because Ryan thought Brendon was going to hurt him, just – Ryan hadn't understood then, and didn't understand now, what they had gotten themselves into.

Anyway, he thought, Pete was different. Ryan was different, too, everything had changed, and he had no idea how to show anyone what he wanted, anyone who didn't know how to read him well enough that they didn't need to be asked. He came in to join Pete in a private meeting, the two of them discussing some of the new tax reforms, and after a moment Ryan leaned over and rather inelegantly mashed his mouth against Pete's.

Pete blinked at him. "Uh," he said.

"Can we just," Ryan said quickly, and flushed. "I mean, I don't want to, like – get together, or anything. Can we just. Please?"

Pete grinned. "Sure," he said. "We can do that," and he took Ryan's face in his hands and kissed him again; harder and wetter, with intent. Ryan closed his eyes and leaned into it, opening his mouth. Pete was a good kisser, he thought, kissing was awesome. It was – just a little bit weird, not quite what Ryan expected (or, or remembered), but it was fine.

He grabbed Pete's hand and whispered, "Your room's closer."

Pete hesitated. "Ryan," he said. "Are you sure? We don't have to—"

"Jesus," Ryan said, irritated. "Yes, I'm sure. Fuck, I'm not going to fucking _break_. It's just sex."

Pete's mouth twisted downwards. "Can it ever just be sex for you, Ryan?" he asked. "Like – even before you were – could it ever be—"

"Okay, let's not go to your rooms then," Ryan said, and went down on his knees with a thump. He unbuckled Pete's belt while Pete was still making uncertain noises, and laughed up at Pete, eyes bright. "Do you want me to suck you off?" he asked, mouth twisting up. "I've been told I'm really good at that."

" _Ryan_ ," Pete said, but Ryan just wanted someone else under his skin, just for once, if only for a little while. He pulled Pete's trousers down and took him in his mouth, and it felt different, but that made sense, too. People were different. His jaw was hurting a little, but he could remember a time when his mouth had _watered_ at the thought of Brendon, so he could do this, he could—

Pete hummed a little and thrust forward, and Ryan choked. He never choked, he was trained not to choke, and he pulled off, eyes watering. Pete made a curious sound and looked down at him, and Ryan was mostly just concentrating on not hacking up his lungs, but maybe Pete saw something in his eyes that Ryan couldn't even feel, yet, because he cursed and got himself back in his pants, and then he dropped to his knees in front of Ryan.

"Wait," Ryan said. "Wait, I just – sorry, let me just."

He reached out but Pete stopped him, pressed his forehead against Ryan's and said, "Oh, kid, no."

Ryan let out a long, shuddering breath, and Pete put an arm around him and hauled him in tight. He said, in a low, angry voice, "I'll never forgive him, not for – I fucking wish you'd let me kill him, Ryan. If you'd just let me, I'd make him pay, I promise, I _promise_ , Ryan—"

"Shut up," Ryan said, voice hoarse. Pete went still and Ryan sighed and kissed the corner of his mouth, a little regretfully. "It's – I don't know," he said. "Let's go swimming, Pete. I don't know, I don't want to."

"Yeah," Pete said. "We'll go down to the river. Let's get Spencer, too. You don't have to talk about it – I'm sorry, that was a really bad idea. I should have known better."

Ryan shrugged. "We're both a bit stupid, sometimes."

They went off together, and Ryan didn't tell him the reason he didn't want to talk about it wasn't because he was scarred or frightened or messed up over it – even though he was – but because he was scared he was going to end up saying something dangerous, something like: _I liked it_. Or worse, the thing that made him wake up shaking in the middle of the night: _I miss him_.

\---

He went down to the dungeons early in the morning, when everyone else was asleep and he could go unnoticed. The cells were dark and frightening and Ryan curled his hands around the bars and peered in, tried to make out Brendon in the shadows.

"Ryan?" Brendon's voice cracked, and Ryan jolted away.

"I – why aren't you asleep?" he asked, and Brendon straightened from the corner. He came towards the bars carefully, moving like he was stiff and sore, or hurt, like someone had beat him. Ryan couldn't see his face properly in the dark.

"I don't like sleeping at night," Brendon said. Ryan blinked at him and after a moment Brendon continued, said, "I – if there's no light I get nightmares."

Ryan swallowed. "Isn't it worse to stay up with no light?"

Brendon said, "I have really bad dreams."

Ryan didn't know what to say to that. He came closer to the bars and reached out, tentatively brushed his fingers over Brendon's curled fist. Brendon didn't make a sound. "I have to go," Ryan said.

"Goodnight," Brendon said, and Ryan hurried away.

\---

It was a surprise, when it happened. Ryan guessed it would be a surprise to _Brendon_ , but he certainly didn't think the spontaneous nature of it indicated great planning. The loyalists were found with the door to Brendon's cell open, talking to him and prostrating themselves before him. Ryan asked a lot of the guards what Brendon was doing, and most of them gave him blank looks, but one remembered something about Brendon standing with his back pressed up against the wall.

It wasn't enough to save Brendon, of course, though Ryan tried. Spencer refused to back him up, though, and Pete was furious and insistent, and this time Ryan wasn't allowed to judge the trial. Patrick did, and Patrick was about as anti-Royal Family as anyone who hadn't been personally mistreated at their hands could get. When Brendon was called before the court again, the charges of conspiracy and treason were added.

"I didn't know," Brendon repeated, insistently, while Ryan listened from the next room, not quite able to bring himself to sit amongst the court. "I didn't _know_ , and I didn't ask for it, and I didn't encourage it."

"Did you alert the guards to their presence?" an interrogator asked coldly, and Brendon was quiet for a moment.

There was a fierce sort of defiance in his voice when he said, "They came to free me. Of their own will, and risking their lives, they came to – did you expect me to betray them?" Ryan bowed his head, clutching onto his books white-knuckled.

The death sentence, on the other hand, surprised nobody.

\---

"Ryan," Spencer said. "Ryan, you can't do this."

"Do what," Ryan said blankly, looking up from his book.

Spencer made a low, angry sound in the back of his throat. "He's a murderer," he said. "He's a murderer, and a rapist, and he kept us imprisoned, and he ruined our lives."

"He was a kid," Ryan said.

"We were, too!" Spencer said. "We weren't allowed to be kids!"

"I'm not trying to defend the system," Ryan said, wheeling around. "You think I've, what, forgotten everything he did to me? I haven't, I won't ever, and I won't ever forgive him for it, either, but – I don't want to see him die, Spencer, for fuck's sake. Do you?"

Spencer stared at him and Ryan glared back, tilting up his chin defiantly. After a moment, Spencer looked away and said, "I don't – _want_ to. But we have to. And he has to."

"I hate it," Ryan said. "It's wrong. It's not what we're about. The executions – they're not what we promised."

"It's only the Royal Family," Spencer said.

"Only," Ryan scoffed, and Spencer looked away.

After a moment, he came and sat on the bed next to Ryan, scant centimetres apart, staring at the bedspread. "It's like," he said, "that you've forgotten everything that's happened, the months that have passed. With him down there, sometimes it feels like we're back in – that we're still prisoners. It's like the times when your whole world revolved around him."

"Spencer," Ryan whispered.

"And I know," Spencer said, still not looking at Ryan. "I know that it was always – for you, it was always more, more complex than for others. I was so scared, when the revolution happened, that you would never be okay again. I thought – we'd never been okay, before, but at least you could function. I wasn't sure if you would, without Brendon. I thought that maybe – even in the last two years, when we were plotting his downfall, it was like with you it wasn't about him. Like he was separate from everything else in your head."

"Spencer," Ryan said again. Spencer kept going.

"It's – I was so frightened that I wouldn't be enough," he said, mouth twisting into a wry smile that could almost have been a grimace. "I thought that with the threat over my head gone, maybe you wouldn't feel like you owed me any loyalty—"

" _No_ ," Ryan said, and turned into him, hugging Spencer tight. "Spence, you're my best friend—"

"—not because you didn't love me," Spencer said, quietly. "But because everything was about him for you, Ryan." He drew in a breath and said, "So, no, I don't want to see him die, and I know that it's – beyond wrong, for you. But sometimes we don't get a choice, and Brendon was wrong, too."

"I do love you," Ryan said, closing his eyes. "I do."

"I know," Spencer said. He breathed in sharply and finally said, "Ryan, you're coming to the execution tomorrow, right?"

Ryan pulled away. "What?"

"Pete needs you to be there." Spencer's gaze was shrewd. "You know you have to be there."

"I," Ryan said, and thought, very suddenly, _I can't do this_. Then he thought: _Oh. I can't do this._ He looked up and half-smiled, melancholy and accepting. "Right," he said. "I know."

Spencer looked at him, narrowing his eyes, and Ryan looked away, eyes downcast. After a moment Spencer nodded and said, "Goodnight." He hugged Ryan again, and left.

Ryan stood up, took a bag out of his wardrobe, and, very calmly, began to pack.

\---

In the dungeons, the torches had been put out already, but there was just enough light for Ryan to see Brendon sitting on the roughly hewn wooden bench that was his only piece of furniture, knees drawn up to his chest, eyes fixed on the tiny window up above him. Ryan went to the bars and leaned against them, facing away from Brendon.

"Ryan?" Brendon said, sounding tired and confused.

"I still hate you," Ryan said. "So much. You made me something awful. You took away everything that was mine."

"I know," Brendon said, and not anything like, _I was stupid_ , or, _well, I'll be paying for it tomorrow_. Ryan's heart ached.

"I hate you a lot," Ryan said. He breathed in and said, "Love you more, though."

"Ryan," Brendon said, and his voice cracked. "Can you – Ryan, look at me."

Ryan turned around and Brendon was right there, face thin and eyes hungry, and Ryan reached through the bars and took Brendon's hands, and they pressed their faces tight against the iron and kissed, feather light. Ryan tasted salt and wondered which one of them was crying, or whether it was both.

"Ryan," Brendon said, and Ryan pulled away, and unlocked the door. Brendon gaped at him. "What are you doing?"

"You think I can watch you die?"

Brendon stared a moment longer. "Where are the guards?" he asked.

"Back there," Ryan said. "Unconscious. There's a passageway down the end here, in the last empty cell, under the hay. It leads to the sea. You should be there by dawn. There'll be a horse and food waiting for you there. I sent a messenger but the messenger will be gone, and you'll be on your own. You have to get out of here."

"Ryan," Brendon said, and Ryan stepped up close and fisted his hands in the material of Brendon's shirt with trembling hands.

"I love you," he said. "I love you, I love you," and Brendon kissed him, hot and real, and Ryan leaned into him and thought there was nothing in the world that could make him give this up, nothing, and if it was possible he would buy it with every gold coin, with every dowry, with every Minister's favour. Brendon was whispering into his mouth, and Ryan didn't have to listen to the words to know them, to feel them etched down into his very bones. Brendon didn't ask, but for a moment Ryan wanted to say, _I'll come with you, let's just go together_ , even though he knew that was impossible, knew that he was the only person left in the capital who could stop a manhunt.

Brendon said, "I have to, I have to go now, right?"

"You have a few hours," Ryan said, "before they'll come looking, but you have to be far away, you have to be—"

"Yes," Brendon said, but he looked desperate and unwilling, and resigned.

"Brendon," Ryan said, "I can't find you if you're dead."

Brendon kissed him again, warm and rough, and then he turned and ran, down the stone corridor. Ryan watched him go, and then he turned for the stairs and stepped over the unconscious bodies of the guards. He went and sat in his room, on his bed, and watched the window as the hours went by and the sky eventually began to lighten, changed to dawn. Then he went to the window and breathed in the cool air, and thought he could almost smell salt, from miles away, as someone else emerged into the morning.


End file.
